redrevenge
by The Nth Degree
Summary: She told everyone not to tell him, but she didn't realize that he was one step ahead of them, that he knew, had a plan and was already exacting it as she was speaking. As the colour red seeps into his eyes, he knows revenge is all he can think about.


A/N: I have a confession to make. I've been hooked on The Mentalist since day 1. I dunno why I should be surprised - I love my procedurals, and I love snark and charm...and it's filled with both! I also love the non-1-dimension that are given to the characters...a lot more than in some other procedurals (coughrecentmothershipLAOcough)...especially Patrick. But who DOESN'T love Patrick?

I wrote this over the summer during a brief break from school and I really love this piece. Anyways, brief explanation time (yay, right?): No timeline in canon - this just happens at some point. Shrug. This might or might not be leading to a one shot sequel (I've been trying to write it for months but only have a quarter of a page. Ehe...oops? So it might never happen). I realize this is angsty (and I'm the first one to admit...yeah, it's really, REALLY angsty!) but considering it's 'the final showdown', I couldn't make it *not* angsty...you know? So if you can bear with that, I'd love to hear what you guys think, though please be civil...my ego's not as robust as Jane's :)

Rating is such because it's kinda graphic with violence in parts. Er. Or the whole thing.

Also, because I'm a student, you can probably pull a Patrick Jane and realize that I don't own any of this. ...And you'd be right. I don't own anything. If I did, I wouldn't be studying for 100 million hours a week.

Also x2, betaed by my 2 wonderful friends. Still doesn't mean it's perfect...as I've been tinkering with it since the beta. Oops!

~Nth

* * *

Lisbon's orders were clear and concise, but Patrick didn't hear them because he wasn't there.

In fact, Patrick had already left, but nobody at the station knew that. He was gone long before Lisbon even gave her orders. She assumed he was out pulling a Patrick stunt, which in this rare case, was untrue.

After she gave her orders, the four agents ran out of the CBI quickly, their coffees, papers stained with half finish sentences, jackets laid haphazardly over their chairs, everything all forgotten in their rush. If they weren't so professional, they would have been in a panic.

But all of them, no matter how they were feeling, all of them would obey their boss' orders: _Do not tell Patrick anything about this._

Little did they know, Patrick already knew. He didn't need their help or their clues. In fact, he heard them coming in their dead of silence. That was why he put the heavy beam in front of the door. He didn't even notice how difficult it was to slide the beam through the two handles until the deed was done. He stood there, looking at his small piece of work, unmoving and quiet.

Footsteps echoed all around him, but he merely closed his eyes and turned to face the center of the large, dark room. No windows to offer any dark twilight, the only door barred by his effort, a single dingy light swaying back and forth from the ceiling, illuminating piles of wood in alternating patterns of light and shadow, like the two people standing on either side of the room. The entire room reeked, but it was but an afterthought to all of his senses.

Patrick opened his eyes. The shadow in front of him moved in time with the light so that the shadow remained as such. It didn't matter; Patrick could still see him.

"Patrick," the shadow said calmly, "I wasn't expecting to see you before your cohorts. And for you to lock them _out_…"

"I prefer to roll alone," Patrick retorted, though the usual demeanour filled with arrogance and suavity had evaporated, leaving coldness and bitterness in its void. "This fight is mine and yours."

Red John chuckled, "I know it is, Mister Jane. It's what I was counting on."

The gleam of silver caught Patrick's eye, but before he could react, the two prongs of the taser embedded itself into the flesh of his stomach and he doubled over, convulsing. The electricity torrented through the wires, sparking and arcing blue, feeding itself on Patrick's body before looping back to the machine from which it was wrought.

Patrick curled his fist as he lay on the ground, shuddering. As he attempted to draw a breath, he breathed in the dust on the floor and his body convulsed even harder, forcing the dust away from his mouth.

Red John's footsteps echoed around the hall as the current in the taser stopped flowing. Then the only thing that came was his laughter: cold, merciless, final. The darkness surrounded Patrick as he groaned and rolled on to his back, his eyes fluttering in pain. The shadow stood above him, grinning and showing its demonic, glittering eyes.

"You disappoint me, Patrick," Red John clicked his tongue reproachfully, though the merciless grin was still there, hiding below the surface. "I thought that you wanted revenge more than this…I thought that you would be wielding hellfire and brimstone to get to me. But instead, you come alone, unarmed, clueless…"

"Far…from clueless," Patrick gasped, though it came out as a groan.

The man ignored him, still smiling, a sadistic caricature of what he painted on the walls of his victims' final resting places. "…It's as if you don't care anymore…you want to die. You didn't even bring your troops with you. You are alone, defeated, and I assure you, now you will suffer in a hundred more ways than your wife and daughter."

Patrick's eyes snapped to attention at the mention of his family. Emotions of darkness welled up in him until his eyes burned with a fire hotter than hellfire itself. Red John began to laugh as he unclipped a small, maroon red object from his belt. With a swift motion of his thumb on the hand opposite the one holding the taser, the blade flicked out from the handle with a metallic springing noise.

"That's what I expected to see," the lament came with a sigh, as Red John leaned down. He drew the flat of the blade against Patrick's cheek, "It's only a shame that it happened near the end of your struggle. I was very much looking to see you crawl, blood pouring from you, still trying to bring me down to hell with you. I thought that time and time you'd come, never stopping until the memory of your precious family was bled from you."

"You're already in hell," Patrick growled, "You son of a bitch, you're going to burn. _I will burn you_!" he screamed, lashing out with his foot, catching Red John in the shin, forcing it backwards against the laws of nature.

And the laws of physics don't like to be denied: with his precariously placed weight, Red John fell backwards. Patrick didn't feel the blade penetrate his cheek as it tore through skin on its way back.

Patrick didn't feel a lot of things anymore. Only revenge coursed through his veins as he ripped the taser from his belly. He was lucky; it had almost missed the fiber vest he was wearing underneath his normal vest. If it had hit him an inch lower, his acting would have been reality. He scrambled to his feet, though the shadow was faster.

The blade flicked again, this time, plunging deep into his thigh. This one was able to penetrate Patrick's wall of numbness, and he hollered in pain.

He wondered if this is what his family felt. The utmost pain, dread, despair…because there was no one to save them? Red rushed into his eyes as he used his two arms and the concept of momentum to grab the neck of Red John, bringing it down with him before forcing it into his knee, just below the maroon hilt sticking out of his skin. Crunching was heard as both collapsed on the dusty wooden floor.

Patrick twisted his hand around so that he found the knife and twisted it out of his body. He felt sinew shred as he pulled it out, but no scream came.

The time for his own screaming was over. He thrust the knife at any part of the body beside him on the ground. He poked at rosy flesh and then jabbed it in, feeling the warm gush of blood running out from between the blade and the skin. A scream came. He reveled in it.

He pried the blade from the skin and its crimson stiletto flashed again, but before it could pierce another target, his wrist was caught between two other hands. More gushing came as Patrick realized that all he managed to hit was Red John's hand and nothing vital to his being.

They struggled in silence before the shadow scowled and brought his bruised face crashing down into Patrick's own head. With a howl, the knife, slippery with the stains of two bloods, dropped to the ground.

"Spill all of my blood, but I'll keep coming after you," Patrick spat, kicking Red John off of him, "And I won't stop until you lay broken in front of me!"

The crack of one of the two men's wrists breaking was caught up in the sudden banging on the barred door, burying the screams of pain. Nobody paid attention to it, even though voices began yelling outside, becoming more and more frantic as shouts came from inside.

Patrick backed away from the shadow, holding his useless wrist and wincing. Blood poured down his cheek, soaking his collar. The pain spread like fire, but it just fueled the ever lasting furnace. His wall was crumbling, but it would not be torn down until the shadow dissipated.

The shadow laughed, "A miserable little wretch like you will break long before I!"

"Your melodrama hides your fear well," hissed Patrick, eyes narrowing as he searched for the knife laying on the ground.

The two were, unbeknownst to both parties, circling each other.

A glint in the dust caught Patrick's eye, but he didn't move towards it. Instead, he flung himself towards Red John, who tried to dodge but moved right into the path of Patrick's good hand. The impact was hard and sent Red John backwards.

Patrick was breathing heavily, but didn't let up. He couldn't…he didn't want to. Years of rage were pouring out of him through his fists, all to see the man who destroyed his life fall. The miscreant's nose was already broken from earlier, but another crack informed Patrick that his fist made a cheekbone splinter like a twig.

More yelling – of his name – came from outside, followed by a loud bang on the door. The beam across the handles bent inwards as the door opened a fraction of an inch, only to slam back shut. 90 percent of Patrick's mind warned him against looking at it, but his neck swiveled to the door, the other ten worried about everybody, but mostly one person outside, his eyes radiating concern.

That was all the shadow needed, and he melted into the darkness with a stumble and began to laugh, though it came out as a sick choking and thick wheezing. By the time Patrick looked back, he was only just in time to avoid a sweep from the switchblade to his stomach. This time, it was underneath the fiber vest and it nicked him before he could get fully out of the way.

He was slowing. He wasn't meant for this. It was supposed to be a quick splash of blood and then he could take his time with quiet, calm slicing, watching the blood and lifeforce flow out of his nemesis.

He backed up, but stumbled, and Patrick fought to regain his balance. The knife came at his throat with a yell from its master, and he felt it slice flesh as easily as the rind of a fruit.

The shock of the sudden burst of pain and welling of blood down the front of his neck made him stumble backwards. He tried to speak out, but all that came was a gurgle and a rush of air. Red John laughed again as Patrick groped behind him for a wall – or a box – or anything to help him stay straight. His feet betrayed him again as he crumpled to the floor, blood streaking and pooling on the ground.

Betrayal … like he must have betrayed his daughter by not being there. By causing it all. Tears began to leak from his eyes as he moved on the ground, trying to force his body closer to his enemy. His fingernails dug against the wooden slats on the floor, leaving bloody prints, and he inched, slowly but surely, the tears streaking his face. What destroyed him about this situation was that the shot to his throat wasn't a killing stroke…he was still alive, still able to hear taunts about those dear to him.

Red John cackled, though it came out oddly through his broken nose. "Ohhoho! So I _was_ right. Crawling – no sense of dignity anymore, _Mister Jane_?" His breath caught in his chest, but a sneer hid it well; most wouldn't be able to discern it, however, Patrick, even in a reduced, crawling state, could see it.

Patrick was fading and anguish fluttered all over his body, but he kept telling himself he had the darkness right where he wanted it. So long as he was breathing…one hand in front of the other, bit by bit… Another loud bang at the door and the hint of a splinter from the heavy lock didn't stop Red John's laughing.

"You think this is over?" Patrick croaked, blood bubbling from his lips. "Ehe…ehehe…okay, go ahead…end this."

"I said I would make you suffer, Patrick," crooned the sickly sweet voice. "And I _do_ intend to."

_Haven't I suffered enough…no. No I haven't._

Another thought, dark and dismal paraded in his head. It was a thought that occurred to him at least three times a day: Just let him die. He deserved that much. Everybody he cared about wasn't here to watch it…so let him just slip into oblivion.

"You know, your wife offered more of a fight than you. Not surprising, I guess…once a coward, always a coward."

"Funny, was about to say the same thing to you."

"Always the joker, even in the face of certain death? Don't you realize, your callous remarks and blatant arrogance, just like you're displaying right now … they will be your end."

"My life ended 5 years ago."

"Saying I can't threaten you anymore?"

Red John clicked his tongue as he limped over to Patrick, who moved his arm to continue his crawl, but dropped in pain and exhaustion. His vision was hazy and his body was lead. The blade flashed again, this time against his upper back. Patrick noted cynically that Red John was using his left hand. This time, as the knife stabbed holes in his back, pain exploded – his wall was down, and though he was trying to rebuild it, he wasn't sure if he could. So he screamed as much as his throat would let him. It was a painful, animalistic howl, wracked with emotion that a thousand men couldn't know.

The door banged again. A second splinter.

Red John smirked as he stood up and admired his handiwork – a deformed smiley face, welling up with blood, poked itself through the dark grey of Patrick's jacket and the fiber vest underneath, seeping through the threads. The knife itself was covered with a stringy mass of what had used to be a part of Patrick's body.

Triumphant, the killer looked at the door, "Before I leave you to your final reward, Mister Jane, I would like to tell you one thing. You ruined my grand vision for art…I wanted to paint your daughter's toenails too, but I ran out of time. They look so much prettier with them done."

Patrick's blood encrusted face raised itself from the ground, his handsome face twisted into a terrifying sneer embodying the darkness he had held within himself for the past five years. The pain disappeared, at least momentarily.

What happened next was too fast for either of the two to make out. Patrick lunged to his feet and turned the knife on Red John, forcing the killer's hands to turn on their owner as the knife plunged twice, three times into his chest. They weren't clean cuts either; jagged, angry and hateful.

The shadow fell with a surprisingly heavy thud, and Patrick fell on top of it, still holding the knife. His body shaking with vengeance, he grabbed the knife and twisted just to hear the shadow shriek and curl in pain, before pulling it out and raising it up, taking aim for the final blow.

"The worst mistake you made is assuming that my desire for revenge would blind me with bloodlust" Patrick spat, knife shaking in his hand. "The worst mistake _you made_ was killing my family. And now you're going to die."

But Patrick's arm wouldn't obey his thoughts. He hesitated, and was unsure why. Was it the small, albeit loud part of his brain that told him that revenge had already been exacted…that it was up to the others to arrest him? Had he sunk to the level of Red John himself? He _wanted_ the wraith dead…the wraith _deserved_ to be dead. Who was he to deny it?

But who was he to exact it? …He was judge, jury…executioner?

A voice out of nowhere spoke to him, kind, gentle, dark_. "Jane? JANE? We're almost through --- just hold on!"_

Tears filled his eyes as he began to sob. They trailed down his cheek, cracking the blood on his face and washing it away in a red river. He glanced towards the one door before he looked at the switchblade in his hand, trying to force it downwards, but it wouldn't go as more and more of his mind realized the truth. Red John's eyes glittered.

"Bye bye, Patrick."

The hand flashed quickly for someone who was supposed to be dying as he tore the knife from Patrick's hand, before smiling maliciously and plunging the knife into his own throat. Blood sprayed the mentalist as the shadow disintegrated into nothingness.

"No!" came the frantic cry as Patrick fell off of Red John and lay helpless on the floor, blood still leaking from almost every part of his body.

The beam splintered into two with a deafening crack. Doors flung open, four agents stood with guns raised, yelling orders at each other. They moved in, closer to the two prone bodies, and they grew silent.

The smiley face was blood.

It was Lisbon who spoke first, though her breath barely held the substance for the words it spoke: "Oh…my God."

Patrick tried to take comfort in her voice, but he couldn't. Instead, he moaned as he tried to move to tell her that he was fine, though his vision swarmed with the effort. She rushed to his side and fell to her knees. He painfully shifted his position, gritting his teeth, to face her. She looked mortified. He couldn't blame her.

"Patrick," she whispered.

"Hello," he mumbled, blinking a couple of times. He coughed, flecks of blood coming from his mouth. She looked up at the others.

"GET THE AMBULANCE HERE NOW!"

"No…m'fine."

"Shut up, you bastard," Lisbon responded, moving her arms gingerly around his back to hold him up from the dusty floorboards. Her voice was still quiet, commanding, and laced with pain. "What…why…"

"Friendly sparring match," he answered, fighting to stay awake. The darkness that consumed him…it was now trying to comfort him as much as Lisbon was…but he didn't want to be comforted by the darkness…he would much rather be comforted by her.

He began to cry again as his memory kept rewinding to what had just happened. "I…couldn't do it…he knew I couldn't do it…he turned it on himself. Slit his own throat just to ensure…my revenge wouldn't…"

He was babbling now, and she was gently removing his jacket to try and see the extent of the stab wounds littering his body like slats of hardwood. Her eyes kept drifting to the pattern on his back, and every time she saw it, she felt her heart ache. To forever be scarred … one final act of defiance. She looked over to the other body and felt disgust well up inside of her.

"It's ok," he finally said, "It's ok. You…you cansayit."

This time, it was Lisbon that shook her head, "I don't want to…Patrick, I don't."

The other three were busy with various tasks, though they all snuck looks at the mentalist as he laid, totally broken in front of them. And their boss…she was just as broken. It was a difficult thing to take in – two seemingly emotionless people…completely dropping their guard.

"Teresa," Patrick mumbled, "Juss'say it. Please."

Lisbon wiped her eyes as she sunk her head lightly onto Patrick's chest and began to quietly weep, "I told you so," she whispered.

He raised his unmarred arm and placed it in her hair, stroking her head, "I know you did. I'll be okay. _It'll_ be okay."

He despaired to see her in this much pain, especially because he was the cause. His already shattered remains of a heart broke even further. "M'sorry, Teresa."

"Don't apologize now, you jerk," she sobbed, raising her head, leaving wet spots on the front of his shirt, "You can apologize when you're better and as snarky as always."

She braced her hands lower down his back – they were covered in blood. She probed the curved wound causing him to curl up and uncharacteristically whimper in a phenomenal amount of pain. She shushed him, just sitting there, holding him closely.

"Where the HELL is my ambulance?" she yelled at the other three.

"It's on its way," Cho responded somberly.

Patrick breathed and closed his eyes. The physical pain was numb from the endorphins having a field day in his system and the adrenaline that was slowly but surely making its way from his drained body, but something happened that he didn't expect…the emotional scars throbbed less because she was there. There was a freedom in this that he hadn't felt in years. He murmured something.

To Teresa, it sounded like he said something that she couldn't believe:

_Just don't let me die._

The single light bulb still swayed, casting his face in shadow before returning it to its dull radiance. Two sides of him merged into one. Teresa let a tear fall down her cheek before she hugged him as carefully, as gently and as lovingly as she could.

"I won't. I promise."


End file.
